The Paper Anniversary
by MyLittleYellowBird
Summary: As their first wedding anniversary approaches, Shelagh and Patrick are still learning that marriage is hard work. Is love enough? Originally published on my Tumblr blog (same name-come join us over there!). Now Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"C'mon, Ange. I just picked it up," moaned Timothy Turner. He bent to scoop the toy giraffe from the floor. "Every time I pick it up for her, she drops it again."

His mother giggled. "So why do you suppose she does it, then?" Shelagh's eyes danced over the rim of her tea cup. Glancing at the clock she added, "Finish your breakfast, it's almost time to go."

Tim picked up his spoon, but Angela had other ideas. With another squeal, she released the giraffe over the side of her high chair, delighted by the thunk it made as it hit the floor.

"Angela!" grumped her brother.

"What is it this time?" Patrick came into the room, kissing his wife good morning. He tilted his head to the side, offering his son a look of some sympathy while tickling behind the baby's ear. "My little Angel isn't throwing food at you again, is she?"

With a pained expression, Tim answered. "No. She keeps dropping my old giraffe to the floor. Every time I pick it up, she drops it again."

"So why do you suppose she does it, then?" Patrick smiled.

Heaving a sigh of frustration, Timothy looked up to the ceiling. "Do you two practice things like that? It's really quite irritating."

"I think it just comes naturally, son." Patrick's eyes went to his watch, and he warned, "You'll be late if you don't hurry, Tim."

With the air of suffering mastered only by an adolescent, Tim went to retrieve his bag from his room.

"So what's in store for my two girls today?" Patrick asked, spooning sugar into his tea. He sneaked a look at his wife, busy wiping Angela's cheeks, and slipped in another spoonful. Patrick Turner liked his tea the way he liked his women, light and sweet.

"It's Wednesday, Patrick."

"Oh, right. Washing." He opened the morning news. "They should set Greenwich by you, love."

"Patrick," Shelagh's voice came around the paper, concerned.

"Hmm?"

"Patrick." Her voice grew sharper.

He looked up, guilty. He recognized that tone. He better step lively.

"Yes, dear?"

"Your cough sounded quite terrible this morning. It's been getting worse for weeks."

"It's just a cough, Shelagh. I'm around sick people all the time, and I never catch anything. It'll pass."

Shelagh pursed her lips, but before she could respond Patrick interrupted. "No, I am not tempting Fate. I'm fine, Shelagh." He picked up his paper, eager to end the discussion. "You're fussing," he teased.

"Who's Mum fussing over?" Tim asked, returning for his lunch.

"Me," Patrick said ruefully.

"Good. If she's fussing over you, she can't fuss over me." He dangled the toy giraffe in front of his sister's eyes, waited for her complete attention, then dropped it to the tray. It became immediately apparent that the darling of the family was more than happy to revisit her favorite game.

"Tim!" cried Patrick at his son's retreating back. "You did that on purpose!"

A few hours later, Shelagh was up to her elbows in whites. Patrick and Tim were off on their day, and Angela napped in her cot.

The quiet repetition of the laundry appealed to Shelagh. The water, the smell of the soap, even the physical force needed to wring clothes through the mangle, all helped her clear her mind. Patrick wanted to invest in an electric washer, and she knew the time was near that it would be necessary. Angela's clothes were only getting larger, and Tim was at an age when he went through clean clothes faster than she could wash them. But for now, she liked the old rituals.

She reviewed the breakfast conversation with Patrick. Obviously, he did not want to talk about that cough, but there was something there that gnawed at Shelagh. She had spent enough time as a nurse, and too much time as a tuberculosis patient to know that was no ordinary sound.

Each morning for much of this winter Patrick rose to a tight, hacking cough. After long moments, the spell would pass, and he would seem his old self. Usually, the cough would not return at all during the day, and it was easy to forget its existence. But there was something in its sound that triggered an alarm in Shelagh.

She had learned enough of herself in these last few years to know that her subconscious had a way of alerting her to a problem. For a long time she ignored that voice, fearful of what she might face. Pretending a problem didn't exist would only make matters worse.

Tonight they would talk about this.


	2. Chapter 2

(Author's Note: Apologies for any errors, most especially concerning Tim's school age. I am assuming that Tim is in his last year of primary school, and about to move up. It wouldn't be the first-or last-time I've been wrong, so if I am, let's just chalk it up to alternate universe stuff. Thanks for your patience.)

* * *

><p>Chapter 2<p>

Ten years spent living with Sister Monica Joan taught Shelagh that sometimes you couldn't play fair. She wasn't manipulating Patrick, precisely, but if she could soften him up a bit, make him more amenable to talk, well then, she would. He had made strides in the area, but discussing personal problems still did not come easily to her husband. Shelagh was hopeful that her steak and kidney pie and a chocolate sponge would smooth the road.

The fates seemed on her side that evening. Despite being in the middle of flu season, Patrick got home early. At nearly four months, Angela was entering that charming-baby phase and was as delighted with the extra attention from her father as he was with her. Even Tim worked quickly to finish a theme, and helped set the table without being asked. Shelagh smiled, hoping it was a good omen.

Despite the happy mood, Shelagh was nervous. It was one thing to decide to push for a difficult conversation. It was quite another to carry it out. Patrick was trying to open up, but could still shut down when matters became uncomfortable, and Shelagh wasn't completely certain of her assertiveness.

Timothy became increasingly animated as dinner progressed. His parents shared amused glances as he kept the family entertained with a long tale of the afternoon's science club meeting. Shelagh and Patrick weren't entirely sure what happened, but there was something involving a paper maché volcano, vinegar and bi-carb, and an explosion all over the play yard.

Over his second slice of cake Tim announced, a little too brightly, "Gary got caught smoking in the lav during Library time today."

Shelagh's fork fell to her plate. She could sense the change in her husband immediately. Drat that Gary. Somehow his mischief always seemed to seep into other people's lives. All her hopeful planning went out the window.

Glancing quickly at his wife, Patrick then turned to his son. "Smoking?" he asked, stunned. "He's eleven!"

"Uh-uh," Timothy answered, "Gary's turned twelve. He's the oldest in the year." His eyes shifted away from his father.

Suddenly suspicious, Patrick glowered. "Who was with him?"

Timothy didn't answer.

"Timothy." Patrick's voice demanded a response.

"I didn't do anything. It wasn't my fault." Timothy's eyes pinkened as he glared back at his father defiantly.

With a deliberateness that set Shelagh on the edge of her seat, Patrick placed his fork next to his plate and took a deep breath. Quietly, he asked, "Timothy, who was with Gary when he got caught smoking cigarettes in the lav?"

Timothy swallowed hard, his throat convulsing with the movement. "Jack...and me. But we weren't-"

Patrick's hand shot in the air between them, demanding silence. "I'm going to ask you a question, and you may only answer with one word." He paused and even Angela seemed to hold her breath. "Were you with Gary in the lavatory today while he was smoking?"

"Yes," Tim answered, his voice very quiet.

Shelagh wanted to step in to shield Timothy from the anger she could feel growing in her husband, but knew this was a time to stay on the sidelines. Patrick could be very stern but was rarely unfair, and another voice would only complicate things.

Patrick pinched his nose, his shoulders tense. "And do think this was a good idea?"

Timothy had been on the receiving end of enough lectures from his father to sit quietly. "No, sir."

"Do you know how important this year is at school?" Patrick sat back in his chair.

"Yes, sir."

"Why is it so important?" Patrick asked calmly. Too calmly, Shelagh thought.

"Because I want to get into a good school. Sir," he added.

Patrick stood up suddenly and walked out of the room. Timothy's eyes were wide as he looked to his mother. Shelagh smiled an encouragement she didn't feel.

Patrick returned, a furious expression on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. Turning, he left the room again, only to return immediately, his hands clenched.

"We have not raised you to lurk in lavs smoking with troublemakers, Tim." He raised his hand and shook his finger. "What were you thinking?"

"I didn't do it, Dad! I didn't! After gym class we all had too much water, so Mrs. Cleary said as we had picked out our books we could go to the lav. There were only two-" he glanced at his mother, embarrassed, "-you know- working, and we turned around and there was Gary lighting a cigarette. He didn't even smoke it, really. But then I reckon it was taking us a bit too long and Mr. Wilder came in to check up on us."

Tim's strident voice upset Angela, and she began to whimper. No one spoke as Shelagh stood and took the baby in her arms, soothing her, then moved to hand the baby to her husband. "Shelagh, not now," Patrick resisted.

Quietly, Shelagh prevailed upon him. "Yes, Patrick. Give me one minute, please."

Patrick pressed his lips together tightly and took the baby, willing himself to calm down.

"Timothy, dearest," she turned to the boy, her calm voice soothing the frayed nerves in the room. "Why haven't we heard from your teacher? Is there a note we should see?"

Perhaps it was the sudden change of mood, but the tears Timothy had been struggling to hold back fell down his cheeks. He shook his head. "No. Honest. I wanted to tell you myself because you always say things will go better if you hear something from me first. Mr. Wilder believed us." Tim sniffed and glanced at his father.

Before Patrick could respond, Shelagh said, "We do believe you, Timothy. Don't we, Patrick?" her eyes encouraged her husband to follow her lead. Meeting her look, Patrick nodded.

"You do? You believe me?" Timothy sniffed, trying to stop his tears.

Patrick sighed. Handing the baby back to his wife, he answered. "Timothy, we trust you. But we also know you're still a child. You're going to do foolish things." He sat in his chair and looked his son in the eyes. "You promise you had no idea what Gary was up to?"

Timothy nodded and wiped his face on his sleeve. Patrick hid a grin at the childish gesture.

"All right, then. And do you promise-"

"I'm not going to smoke, Dad," Timothy interrupted, "I promise. _And _I've told Gary that I won't play with him anymore. I'm tired of getting into trouble because of him."

Patrick considered his son for a moment, then nodded his head. He reached over and gently tousled the boy's hair.

"Dad, don't!" Timothy moaned, but his smile was wide.

"Well, if you're done here," Patrick answered, "you'd better start to clear the table." The drama over, he was eager for things to return to normal. For effect, Tim rolled his eyes. "I suppose I can't say I've still got too much homework?"

"No dice, I'm afraid. You owe your mother."

Timothy grinned. "Don't I know it?" Stacking the dessert plates, he moved into the kitchen.

Patrick got up and went to his cigarette case on the mantle. Lighting one up, he said, "Clever use of the baby, sweetheart."

Shelagh smiled. "We all have a part to play in the family, dearest."


	3. Chapter 3

The high drama of dinnertime quickly dissipated into the usual bedtime chaos.

"Patrick, if your patients ever saw you in my apron you'd likely lose half your practice!" Shelagh leaned against the doorway watching her husband and daughter make a mess of her clean kitchen.

"Then it's a good thing we don't let my patients have free range of the kitchen at bathtime, isn't it?" His sing-song question made Angela screech in delight and sent a splash of water over the edge of the sink.

Shelagh reached in front of her husband and soaked up some of the soapy water with a towel. "Really, you two make more of a mess than anything else. You should let me just take care of the bath, Patrick. Angela would already be in her nightdress, and there'd be no mess."

Pouring water over the back of the baby's head, Patrick responded, "No, thank you, Madam Efficiency. This is our time. You go sit and sew or sing or make Tim clean his room or something."

Knowing Patrick wouldn't put Angela to bed any more quickly than he bathed her, Shelagh left them to their own devices and went to check on Tim.

Sprawled on his bed reading the latest edition of TinTin, it was hard to believe her son was old enough to have classmates smoking in the lavatory.

"Homework's packed away? Uniform ready for tomorrow?" she asked.

Tearing his eyes from the page before him, Timothy answered, "Yes. I think I need another jumper, though. That one has a spot on it from lunch."

"I washed the other one today." She walked over to the pile of folded clothes still sitting on his desk. "Perhaps it's here?" Shelagh wondered archly.

Tim smiled sheepishly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Mum? Thanks for helping tonight. Dad was really mad."

"Yes, well, to tell you the truth, so was I. But I think you learned an important lesson today." She placed the clean jumper with tomorrow's uniform.

"Stay away from Gary," Tim grimaced.

Shelagh kissed his cheek. "Among other things. Goodnight, dearest."

"'Night, Mum."

Coming out of the bedroom, she met her husband and daughter.

"Clean as a whistle," Patrick told her. "Now it's time for a change, dressed, snuggled and put to bed. Coming?" he asked, leading the way into the nursery.

"No, you two continue your plotting. I'll clear up your mess." Picking up two little feet, she pressed her lips to them. "Good night, Angel Girl."

A quarter of an hour later, Shelagh was finally finished for the night. The kitchen was clean and tidy, _again,_ and Angela's two a.m. bottle was ready for the two a.m. feeding Patrick was somehow always able to sleep through. Shelagh kicked off her slippers and settled on the sofa.

Tonight had not gone according to her plan. Patrick's strong reaction to Tim's story made Shelagh hesitate to open up the subject again. She wasn't completely certain why her husband had reacted so fiercely. Certainly, Timothy was far too young to be getting into such trouble, but she doubted that Patrick had truly believed his son was smoking in school.

She felt the butterflies from earlier in the evening return. She couldn't ignore Patrick's cough, but she did not relish the idea of pushing through her husband's defenses. He did like to be in control of things. Or at least appear to be in charge.

Patrick came into the room and headed to the mantel. Lighting himself a cigarette, he offered her one.

"No, thank you, dear." Shelagh hadn't had a cigarette in weeks. She wondered if he had noticed.

For a moment, he squinted at her in concentration, then his face relaxed, and he took a deep inhale of smoke. "She went down almost immediately. Something about her old dad that calms the little angel right down."

"More likely he exhausts the poor babe." Shelagh patted the couch. "Sit with me."

Patrick gave a nod of his tilted head and moved the ashtray stand closer to the sofa. Shelagh made room for him and cuddled up close when he took his seat.

Sliding her hand around his arm, Shelagh caressed his palm with her thumb. She felt his body relax into hers and sighed. Quiet moments like this were rare lately, and she wished she could enjoy it. Patrick turned his head to hers and placed a kiss against her forehead. She hated to ruin the moment, but they had to make a start.

"Patrick?" Her voice was a bit hesitant. That won't do, Shelagh, she told herself. Be strong.

"Hmm?" Patrick breathed deeply.

"Do you remember the Carter twins? That birth we attended together?"

With a chuckle, Patrick answered, "I'm not likely to forget that one, am I? Possibly the strangest birth I ever supervised. And," he smiled at her, "it was pretty special for us, as well."

"Yes." Shelagh paused, letting the memories come back.

"You told me a secret for the first time," Patrick reminisced. His hand tightened over hers. "I think that was when I knew it wasn't just me. You were feeling something, too."

Shelagh sighed, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. "I was terrified. I should have stayed with Trixie, to help with the settling in, but I wanted to be near you a bit longer. I told myself it was just friendly feeling, but I knew. I just wasn't admitting it to myself."

Patrick looked at the cigarette in his hand. "We shared our first, then."

There it was. He gave her the opening she needed. Shelagh drew a shaky breath and agreed. "Yes. I felt so bold, then. I wondered what you must think of me: I had just confessed to stealing cigarettes from my father's drawer, and there I was, smoking in a back alley with you!"

Patrick laughed. "My bold girl." He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette, then lowered his head to hers, pressing a kiss to her mouth.

Stay strong, Shelagh, she whispered to herself. It would be easier to yield to his unspoken question, to postpone this discussion until later, but that didn't feel right. It was one thing to try to smooth the way with a nice dinner, and quite another to use the bedroom to get her way.

Slowly, she pulled away. "Patrick?" she swallowed, then charged on. "Why would you say that?"

From the base of her neck, she heard Patrick's muffled voice. "Say what?"

"Why would you call me a "bold girl" for that?" She pushed gently at his shoulders, bringing his eyes back to hers.

Confused, Patrick sat back. "What are you talking about?"

"In that alley, when I told you I had smoked my father's cigarettes. I was only fourteen, Patrick." Here goes, she thought. Jump in with both feet.

Patrick's eyes shuttered. Shelagh took a shaky breath. "I was only fourteen, but you just called me a bold girl for it."

"Shelagh-" Patrick's voice had a warning. Still she pushed on.

"Timothy's eleven. You didn't think it was 'naughty' when you believed he might have been smoking." She held the shaky breath in her lungs.

Patrick brought his arm out from behind her and stared ahead at the electric fire. "It's completely different, Shelagh. Timothy's my son. You were...I see what you're trying to do, Shelagh."

"I'm not trying _to do _anything, Patrick. I just want to talk about this."

Patrick got up and went to the mantel. This time when he started another cigarette, he did not offer her one. The silence grew as he inhaled deeply, his eyes squinting with the effort. After what seemed like hours, he started again.

"Timothy's a boy. He knows how I -we-expect him to behave. Smoking in the lav, or even hanging around while Gary does, is not going to instill confidence in his judgement." His voice was even, controlled. Shelagh had the feeling he had slipped behind his GP mask.

Shelagh grew uncomfortable with the strain. Trying to appease him, she asked, "So tonight, at the table, that was because he might have broken the rules? It wasn't about the cigarette?"

He took another long inhale, gathering his thoughts. "If Tim wants to go to a top school, he'll need to keep his nose clean. I've been telling him he should mind whom he spends time with; Gary's headed for trouble.

"I'm tired. It's been a long, day, Shelagh. I'm for a bath, then bed." He stepped over to her and pressed a quick kiss on her forehead, then was gone from the room.


	4. Chapter 4

As Shelagh prepared for bed, she tried to ignore the coil of tension she felt growing in her body. Patrick sat up in bed, reading, or at least, she thought, he wanted her to think he was reading. As much as Patrick wanted the discussion closed, she knew it couldn't be. She wanted to please him, but she could not pretend the matter did not exist.

She pressed her lips together in frustration as she brushed out her hair. It would be much easier if the evening followed her plan. Timothy's near miss with trouble had added a layer of complication she would have preferred to avoid.

Nervously, she stood to remove her robe and slid into their bed beside him. Almost immediately, Patrick closed his book and reached to turn off his lamp.

"Good night, love," he said.

Shelagh was not deceived by his light tone. Her husband was starting to build up an invisible wall around himself, one she could almost physically feel. Her mind went back to the dark days of last autumn, when it felt as if everything was going wrong. Once her own anger subsided, Patrick had slipped into a polite coolness and so much seemed to be lost.

She sighed quietly. She had felt so helpless during the dark weeks of their estrangement. Patrick retreated so far away from her that she worried they wouldn't find their way back. Her efforts at reconciliation went unheeded, until one night he came home, ready to let her back into his heart. Somehow they had managed to reach across the barrier to find each other.

It had been brave of him, she knew. Now it was her turn to be brave.

Shelagh slid under his arm and pressed herself against him, her head on his chest. Trying to find a crack in his armor, she willed him to accept her gesture. After a momentary pause, Patrick responded and tightened his arm around her. Relief began to ease her stress.

"I'm sorry, Patrick. I didn't mean to upset you." she told him. "I hate it when we argue."

She heard him exhale, his tension unwinding a bit as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I don't even know what we were arguing about. I think the drama with Tim just wound us up, that's all. A good night's sleep and everything'll be right as rain."

"Yes," she answered quietly. "I suppose so." She rubbed her nose against his chest, breathing him in. Her fingers gently stroked the green stripes of his pyjama top, its soft cotton soothing her.

"That's my girl," Patrick murmured.

She'd always loved his pet name for her, how it made her feel cared for, adored. Those first weeks after leaving the convent, when she so felt so desperately adrift, it had given her a place in her new world. Patrick loved her; she was his girl. They belonged to each other.

She loved how he made her feel safe. His self confidence and his ability to take charge had always impressed her. Patrick was a man others turned to for guidance, and he was used to others following his advice.

Shelagh's brow began to wrinkle. His soft words struck her differently tonight. He almost sounded paternal. Her heart skipped a moment. Is that how he thought of her, a beloved ingenue to be indulged? Did she make it easy for him to slip into this role with her? Is that what he wanted of her? Is that what she wanted of him?

Shelagh breathed deeply, gathering her strength. "We have to be able to talk of difficult things, dearest. We promised each other we wouldn't hide behind silence." She could feel his body go rigid again, the wall getting thicker.

"Shelagh, we're both tired. Save it for another time." Patrick's voice was chilly.

She wanted to heed his words. She wanted to hug him to her, forget her worries. They were so happy. Why let this come between them? He worked so hard, had so many worries. Perhaps she should let the matter rest.

"See, better already," Patrick's voice interrupted her thoughts. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.

Shelagh pushed up, resting her forearms on his chest. "Patrick, dearest," she began nervously, "I'm sorry, but it's not better. We're simply brushing this aside." She could feel her courage falter as she met his gaze.

His eyes clouded over, shielding his thoughts. "Shelagh-"

She could see him resisting her, unwilling to open up. He never got angry with her, indeed he rarely showed even mere annoyance. But was there a false safety in that?

The wall between them became unbearable and Shelagh let instinct take over. Above all things, the barrier must come down. She slid up higher on his chest and pulled his head to hers. Her lips pressed to his softly, caressing. She could feel his resistance and pushed beyond it. Between gentle tugs on his lips, she whispered, "I love you, Patrick. Don't go away from me. Please let me in."

His mouth softened under hers and she deepened the kiss. She pressed tighter to him, needing to be closer, and her hands slid down his neck to grasp his shoulders. Resistance gone, Patrick's arms wrapped around her and he turned, pressing her body into their bed.

Later, Patrick chuckled into her ear. "You always surprise me, sweetheart."

"Hmmm. It's no surprise, dearest." Shelagh opened her eyes and smiled. "I love you so very much." She stretched, her soft body against his, her feet pressing to the tops of his.

"I didn't mean for this to happen, though," she admitted.

Patrick picked up her hand from his chest, intertwining their fingers. "I'm glad it did."

She nodded, watching their hands. "Yes. You were so far away." She released him, pushing up on his chest to meet his eyes squarely. "We have to be able to disagree, Patrick. Wait-let me say this and then we can let it rest for a bit, I promise."

He sighed heavily, sitting up higher against the pillows.

Shelagh sat up as well. On her knees, she sat just even with him. She took a deep breath and looked him squarely in the eyes. "I think your cough is a problem, dearest, and I think you do, too. I think you were so angry tonight because you don't want Timothy to smoke, ever." Patrick made to interrupt. "No, let me finish. It's the one area you don't lecture your patients on, but you know as well as I do how very harmful it can be."

She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. "You know how much I love you, Patrick. I don't want anything to harm you. Just consider it, that's all I'm asking."

Patrick's eyes ran over her, taking in the tousled hair, her swollen lips, the sheet pulled up as modestly as she could and nodded. "I tried once. To quit. After the war, after-when I came home. I thought if I could stop smoking, it would be another way to leave it all behind me." He smiled crookedly. "I reckon I can be a bit thick."

Shelagh smiled back at him and pushed her fingers through his hair. "Perhaps a bit. Patrick dearest, trust me. Don't hold it in. If we need to, someday we'll have a full stop shouting match. And we'll survive."

Reaching out, he pulled her onto his lap, a tangle of sheets and pillows. "Hmmm," he groaned into her neck. "Especially if we can make up so nicely."

"That's a promise we can definitely keep, lovely man."

Patrick lifted his face, suddenly serious. "I can't promise about the smoking, though, Shelagh. It's been a long time. But I will consider it."

Her arms slid back around his neck. "I know. And I promise not to nag about it. Just as long as we keep talking."

"Shhh. You talk too much," her husband murmured.


	5. Chapter 5

The late winter sun washed over the steps of All Saints Church, warding off the chill as Sunday services let out. Somehow, Timothy was very nearly the first one out, despite playing the piano as the choir sang the recessional hymn. He sat down on the bottom stair, next to his sister's pram and waited as his father joined him.

"Mum lets you run out like that? You don't need to stay for the talk afterwards?" Patrick shifted the blanket before lowering Angela into the pram.

"No. She said it's the least she could do after 'convincing'" -his fingers went up in a simulation of quotation marks- "me to stay with the choir until after the summer. Besides, she'll have plenty to tell me at home."

"Poor man. A small price to pay for her cooking, though, isn't it?" Patrick smirked.

That smirk came back at him. "Not to mention always having clean clothes, Dad."

"You wound me, son."

From behind, a voice called out. "Doctor Turner! Always a pleasure to see you here!"

The Turner men turned to see Old Mr. Gipper climbing down the steps one at time towards them.

"Mr. Gipper!" Patrick answered, swiftly meeting the man and offering his arm. "You should be using your cane when you walk out. We've discussed this before."

The old man waved the arm away. "When I can't get meself to Church on my own two feet, I'll be needin' more'n a cane."

Arriving at the bottom, he peered into the baby carriage. "That is surely one beautiful baby you've got there, Doc. As pretty as yer wife."

"Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to tell Shelagh you said so." He glanced over to his son, gesturing with his eyebrows.

Quickly, Tim stood up. "Hello, Mr. Gipper. Would you like me to walk you home?" Patrick smiled proudly.

"Morning, Tim. Lovely job with the choir today. Though I'd reckon not your favorite thing, eh?"

"It's not so bad, sir. Better than sitting with Dad and Angel. She always fusses for Mum when she hears her sing."

A wheezy laugh passed through the old man's dentures. "Can't say as I blame 'er, young Tim. Yer mum has the voice of an angel. Funny, that."

"What's funny, sir?"

"Yer mum. She's got a way of healing about 'er, no matter what she does, doesn't she? Back when she was a midwife, me grand-daughter used to say she always felt safe when Sister Bernadette was near. Now, she's a nun no more, but she still finds a way to heal us all. I hear her lead the choir and me own troubles go away for a bit." He placed his cap back on his grizzled head. "Must do you fellas a world o' good, too. Well, I'm off. Thanks fer the offer, Timothy Turner, but you'd just slow me down."

They watched as the elderly man made his way up the street, jaunty despite his slow pace. His words echoed in Patrick's head. He could never measure the amount of good Shelagh had done for them.

"Hello," Shelagh surprised them. "How is Mr. Gipper?"

"Quite an admirer of yours, I must say." Patrick placed her hand in the crook of his arm. "Tim, push your sister, please."

Timothy must have been as affected by the old man as his father, for he gave no argument and turned the carriage towards Nonnatus House.

Patrick and Shelagh slowly strolled towards the weekly luncheon, as Timothy avoided the ruts in the old cobblestones.

Quietly, Patrick confided, "You were right, you know. About the other night."

Shelagh smiled up at him, teasing. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that, dearest. I'm right so often."

Patrick exhaled a quiet laugh; his smile crooked. "That does seem to be the case. love." Noticing Timothy was getting farther ahead of them he called, "Not so fast, Tim. It's a pram, not a Jaguar!"

Timothy turned back with a look of impatience. "Well, come on, then. I'm hungry. If we don't get to Nonnatus soon, Sister Monica Joan will eat all the pastries!"

Shelagh giggled. "You'll have to tell me later how I was right, Patrick. It won't do to let Timothy get the hungry grumpies."

Quickening his pace, Patrick laughed. "Heaven forbid!"

"Angela always naps so well after a day at Nonnatus," Shelagh announced as she returned from the nursery. Looking around, she asked, "Where's Timmy?"

Patrick glanced up from the files he was reviewing. "Something about a big game of Sardines. We won't see him 'til dark."

"Well, then, how about some tea?" Shelagh twitched the tablecloth straight.

"Just a cup. Mrs. B's cake filled me up."

"You mean_ two _pieces of Mrs. B's cake filled you up, Patrick."

Relieved she hadn't noticed the third slice, he agreed. He followed her into the kitchen, watching as she set about the homey chore.

"I don't know how you stayed so slim, living there," he noted.

"Probably because I never let myself have the _third_ piece, dearest." She placed the kettle on to boil and turned to wink at him.

"Caught!" he cried and pulled her into his arms. "I thought you didn't notice."

Shelagh's hands played with the buttons of his waistcoat. "I notice everything about you, dearest." She slid her arms up around his neck. "Now, what to do while the kettle boils?"

His warm lips answered her question, pressing softly against hers. Time stopped for a few moments before they were interrupted by one steamy whistle.

Grudgingly releasing her, Patrick moved to the cupboard for cups and saucers.

"What were you going to say earlier?" Shelagh asked over her shoulder.

Distracted by the sight of his wife's dress clinging to her hips as she reached up for the tea tin, Patrick had to be asked twice before he came back to the kitchen. His face grew serious.

"Patrick? Is something wrong?" Her forehead creased in concern.

"No, nothing's wrong." His thumb caressed her "worry crinkles" and he smiled ruefully. "I have a mea culpa; that's all."

"Oh, dear. That sounds ominous." Shelagh's voice was light. "More serious than the cake?"

Patrick's finger rubbed against his thumb nervously. "Yes. Shelagh, the other night, when I got so angry with Tim, it wasn't because he got caught in mischief with Gary and Jack."

Shelagh turned back to the teapot. She hadn't expected Patrick to be the one to broach this subject at all, especially so soon. She spooned the tea leaves in, making the tea strong to his taste. "No?"

"No. Tim's got a good sense for trouble. He knows better than to make such an obvious mistake." He noticed his twitching fingers and ran his hand over the back of his neck. "Let's bring the tea into the sitting room. Then we can have a chat."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: The direct connection between lung cancer and cigarette smoking was proven in 1957 by the Medical Research Council, near the time of the terminal diagnosis (as per my head canon) of Patrick's first wife. We now know that lung cancer can be the actual source of several other cancers, including brain, liver, and bone. For the purpose of my story, I have made medical understanding of the nature of lung cancer metastasis unclear at the time.

True to her word, Shelagh had not mentioned the subject of cigarettes since their last discussion. She knew she he needed time and could be patient, for now there was a sense of inevitability regarding the topic. Her concerns were out in the open, and as much as Patrick preferred to bury his own problems; he wouldn't ignore her fears. Shelagh was willing to wait, and in the meantime, if the air was a bit awkward each time he lit up, neither mentioned it.

Settling on the sofa, she wrapped her cardigan closer and watched as Patrick paced in front of the mantle. Shelagh tried to tamp down a feeling of unease. Patrick was not comfortable with uncertainty, she knew, but she had only recently discovered her own dependence on his confidence.

He turned away, pacing to the window. "Margaret was a smoker, did you know?"

She nodded. "I remember." While not a regular fixture at clinics, there had been occasions when the vibrant and healthy Margaret crossed her path. To the shy young nun, Margaret Turner had seemed confident and sure of her place in the world. Even as the cancer withered her, she was brave and strong for her family. Shelagh thought it had been no wonder Patrick and Timothy had been devastated by her loss.

He drew a shallow breath. "I think that's what caused her illness."

"Patrick, I helped nurse Margaret a few times. Her doctors diagnosed bone can-" Shelagh stopped, stunned. "It metastasized," she whispered, the realization making her pale.

"Yes. We didn't know then. All her symptoms were related to her back, so that was her doctor's focus. The pain, the weakness in her spine; her symptoms all pointed toward bone cancer. We didn't know then that it likely spread from the lungs first.

"After she...died...I needed to do something. I felt so useless." He moved to the sofa, taking his place next to her. His eyes glittered as he met hers; the lines on his face had somehow deeper. She reached out and gripped his big hand in her small one.

Patrick's lips twisted in a sad smile. "I convinced the doctors to let me see her files. I poured over them every night, trying to figure out what had happened, what we missed. She was so healthy, Shelagh. She never got sick. We used to joke that she couldn't, that I had too many patients already.

"One night, I was reviewing her first set of x-rays again when I...I noticed something different. There was one film of her upper spine where a bit more of the lungs showed. I'm not sure why I even looked there.

"I could make out, just barely, a lesion on the lower left lobe. God, Shelagh," he rasped. "I'd never thought-even after the MRC report. We never suspected that the cancer started in her lungs."

His hand turned in hers, squeezing it, holding on tight. "I never saw it. Who knows how long the tumors were growing inside her before we noticed anything? Even the back pain, we just thought...her grandmother had a bad back. We thought, maybe it was just that. She didn't tell me, but she must have had pain for months and never said."

Gathering herself, Shelagh spoke gently. "She didn't want you to worry, dearest. You, yourself said Margaret thought the pain was nothing out of the ordinary." Her free hand slipped up to caress his cheek. "Patrick, you know lung cancer can go undetected for a very long time. Margaret had no symptoms; I remember. No cough, no breathing difficulties, nothing. There was nothing to point you in that direction. Even if you had guessed when the back pain started, it's likely it would have been too late."

Patrick pulled his hand away and rubbed at his forehead, struggling for words. He dropped his head in his hands, and silence grew loud in the room. Then his voice came to her, muffled. "I shouldn't be telling you this. It's not what I wanted to say. I don't want you to think-" he stopped abruptly.

The sting of a hidden fear spread through Shelagh's heart. She knew she wasn't his first love. He had loved and lived with another before her, made a child with her. She feared Margaret would somehow always be between them.

Uncertainty froze her mind. She wanted to soothe him, to offer words of comfort, but couldn't. Patrick was opening a part of his heart, but she wasn't sure she was welcome there. Would his life with Margaret always be behind another barrier? Had she found the limits of his love? An unwilling tear slipped down her cheek.

He stood again, moving to the table as if this were a typical Sunday tea. She watched as he carried out the ordinary steps to pouring out. His back still towards her, he continued, "I didn't tell you this. After I learned of the lung cancer, I tried to quit again. I did, actually, for three days. But there was Timothy to raise, and work, of course, was so… I had to smoke. It was the only thing that would help.

"Maybe I felt guilty. I was the one that survived. I was the one that would go on, watch Timothy grow up; I would continue my work. It didn't seem fair that I could use her second chances, that I was given the opportunity to learn from our mistakes." His shoulders slumped, weary from carrying so much.

"Shelagh, when you became ill... that whole terrible time when I thought I would lose you-" he turned finally, and she was devastated by the agony in his eyes. He crossed to her in two swift strides and knelt before her. "Margaret let me go. Before the end, when she was conscious so little of the time, she told me to keep living, not just for Timothy, but for me. She made me promise to join the world.

"It was hard, but I let her go, too. I didn't set out to find someone else. When I finally realized what my feelings for you were, I let myself fall in love with you." He smiled ruefully, a soft laugh escaping his lips. "I don't think I could have stopped it. I...I just surrendered to it. I never imagined we would be together, not then. It was enough to know that even if I could never be with you, I could love you." His hands gripped hers even tighter.

Shelagh felt a twinge of shame. She had no idea he had wrestled with his feelings for her. His letters, his confessions since that misty road, had described his acceptance of it, and his concern for her difficulties. She never thought that perhaps Patrick had fears of his own. How selfish she had been from the very start.

His grip tightened convulsively. "When you went to the sanitorium, your lungs could have… You came back to me, healthy; I had a fresh start. But then Timothy…" he stopped, remembering that unbearable pain, and his voice became derisive. "I kept smoking through it all. Oh, God, Shelagh, I kept lying to myself. How many signs will I ignore before I finally face the truth?"

Shelagh's heart softened. This man had taught her so much of herself. His heart had such deep capacity for love. He was a brilliant doctor, with a great depth of medical knowledge, but it was his compassionate heart that made him a healer. She had to show him the way to accept his flaws and love himself. And love would give them strength to move forward.

She cradled his cheek, her fingers running through the black strands more silver than the year before. "You're the strongest person I've ever known, Patrick. You feel things so deeply, you know of pain, yet you push on. I'm so very proud to be your wife. You've supported me through so many trials, and you never ask for anything. But I mustn't be selfish anymore, Patrick. It can't be all about me. You have to trust me, and I have to open my eyes to you."

Patrick looked up at her shining face, stunned. This glorious creature accepted him, despite his weaknesses, perhaps in part because of them. He watched as her cheeks flushed with emotion. Her freshness of character and form reminded him that he was too old already. They already had too little time. There would never be enough time. How could he shorten their years together?

"Shelagh, what if I can't? I've failed before."

"You were alone before, dearest." Her eyes gleamed with happiness.

He smiled as he felt fear lift from his heart. "Now I'm never alone. I'm married to you."


	7. Chapter 7

Over the next week, the family saw little of Patrick. The demands of his practice seemed quite high, and even Tuesday, his one night a week guaranteed to be off, he had to go to the London. Shelagh was growing concerned that the plans for their first wedding anniversary would have to be postponed.

"Not a chance, sweetheart," Patrick promised when she told him of her fears. He pulled her away from the sink and whispered in her ear, "I have every intention of celebrating our anniversary. I'm looking forward to unwrapping my present tomorrow night. After the children go to bed."

"Patrick," Shelagh flirted. "You're very greedy. How do you know I've gotten you anything at all?"

Nuzzling her neck, her answered, "Hmm, I've got my present right here in my arms. It's my favorite gift ever." His fingers trailed along her back, making her knees weak. "I particularly enjoy unwrapping it again and again."

"Dad," Timothy's voice interrupted them as he entered the kitchen. "Please let Mum go. You'll put me off my breakfast."

Patrick's head came around. "Sorry, son. I should think you'd have developed a stronger stomach by now." Reluctantly, he released his wife and picked up his case. "I'm off. Late again tonight, I'm afraid. But tomorrow, it's family time at the Observatory, then Tim, you're off to a night at Colin's and my little Angel will spend the night with Nonnatus." With a quick tickle of the baby's tummy, he was gone.

"Dad sure is chipper today," Timothy grumbled.

Shelagh's eyes danced as she tried to hide a dimple.

"Don't you start, too," the poor boy groused.

Fortunately, by the big day Patrick's schedule settled back to normal, and after a chilly picnic at the observatory as a family, the no-longer-newlyweds were able to enjoy their dinner out. By nine o'clock that night, Patrick unlocked the door and ushered his wife into their home. The scent from the large bouquet of hyacinths and stephanotis wafted through the flat, welcoming them.

"I think it's lovely you brought me the same flowers as our wedding, Patrick. You're very romantic," Shelagh confessed. She turned her back to him and let him slide her coat from her shoulders, and then reached up to remove her new pretty blue cap.

"Oh!" she cried as Patrick shifted from chivalrous to libidinous and pressed her body up against the wall. Not one to complain about her husband's attentions, Shelagh happily responded.

Long moments later, Patrick rubbed his nose to hers. "As I recall, you didn't give me a chance to make the first move a year ago."

Shelagh couldn't stop the blush that spread across her cheeks. "I was so nervous, dearest. I thought if I didn't do something, I wouldn't be able to do anything!"

He laughed and bent to lift her in his arms, heading to the bedroom door. "Oh, we would've figured something out, sweetheart. If I am certain of only one thing, that's it."

Sometime later, light filtered in through the open door, revealing a tangle of sheets and limbs. The passion that had raged only moments ago satisfied, their bodies slowly calming. Gingerly, Shelagh moved her weight from above her husband and slid down alongside him. Patrick shifted to face her, propped up on his elbow.

He watched as her breathing slowed, and the flush faded from her cheeks. A year, he thought. One year ago tonight they had been so new to each other. He had known that being her husband was all he could hope for, that simply sharing his life with her would make him the happiest of men.

He never guessed that his prim wife, so long apart from the corporeal world, would be so ardent, so enthusiastic in their bedroom. Then again, he chuckled to himself, his Shelagh never did anything by halves. The joy of loving brought them even closer.

He kissed her lightly, and she smiled against his mouth. They lingered; glancing touches of lips and tongues fired more by intimacy than passion. Shelagh stretched contentedly and nuzzled her head against his shoulder.

Suddenly, Patrick sat up, sending Shelagh to the edge of the bed.

"I nearly forgot! Wait here," he climbed out of bed and grabbed his dressing gown.

"No, Patrick. Stay," his soft wife tempted.

He grinned wickedly. "I'll just be a moment, love. Stay exactly as you are," he told her as he headed out the door.

Shelagh sat up, pulling the sheets up as high as she could for modesty and reached for her glasses. The noises coming from the sitting room were strange, indeed. "Patrick, are you in the piano?" she laughed. He was definitely up to something, she thought. Spying his abandoned shirt on the floor, she scooped it up and slipped it on.

Practically dancing as he returned, Patrick sat on the bed beside his wife. "I'll have to find a new hiding place. Tim wanted to know why the piano sounded so strange." He stopped and took in the sight of his wife, hair tousled, lips swollen. "I like you in my shirt, my bold girl." He held out his surprise.

"You already gave me a present, Patrick. The flowers are lovely." Her eyes were on the inexpertly wrapped packages Patrick had set before her.

"That was for in front of the children." With a lopsided grin, he reached over and tucked her hair behind her ear.

They had exchanged gifts at breakfast, Patrick receiving a formal portrait of Shelagh and the children; one copy for home, another for his surgery.

"I thought photographs, Patrick, for paper," Shelagh had told him as she poured out more tea.

He had looked at her quizzically, seeming to not understand her meaning. Shelagh had continued, "Gifts are supposed to follow a theme. The first anniversary is paper. You know, like silver for twenty-five…"

"I reckon you'll have to count the paper the flowers are wrapped in, Dad," Timothy had teased.

Now, settling next to her on the bed, Patrick confided, "This is private, just between us. Open the little one first."

Shelagh smiled, puzzled by his nervous state. The first package was small enough to fit in her hand and very light. She turned it over and untied the green ribbon, then began to peel the paper away.

Her breath caught in her throat, closing her lungs. The paper fell to the bed, revealing a new packet of cigarettes. Stunned, she looked up at him. "Patrick?"

His words rushed out. "Paper. I knew it was paper, Shelagh. The cigarettes, the packet, they're paper."

"But I don't understand." Surely Patrick wasn't giving her cigarettes, not after Sunday's talk?

"I've given them up, Shelagh. Cigarettes. I'm quitting for good this time." His eyes glittered, anxiously searching her face. "I'll need your help, Shelagh. I can't do this without you."

Shelagh stared at him; her pale eyes huge as the meaning of his words sank in, then let out a cry of joy. She sat up and wrapped her arms about his neck and clung tightly to him.

"Yes, Patrick. Oh, yes. Dearest, of course I'll help. Anything." She covered his face with kisses, laughing and crying all at once.

Laughing with her, Patrick held her away. "That's not all. There's one more present."

Shelagh placed her hands on his cheeks. "I don't need anything else, dearest. You've given me so much already." She pressed her lips to his in a slow kiss.

Her body was warm pressed against his, and his hands slid under his shirt along her bare back, holding her tightly to him. His body stirred with his need for her again, but that would wait until after she opened the second gift. Coming to his senses, he returned his hands to her arms, making space between them. "Shelagh, open it."

Wiping the tears from her face, Shelagh picked up the last gift. An extra large envelope tied with another bow, it gave no hint as to its contents. She slid her hand under the flap and pulled out its contents.

Few women are ever given an x-ray as a gift, and even Shelagh, with her own unusual history with the films, was confused.

Patrick waved a long finger in the air. "More light. You need to see it properly."

He reached past her and flicked on the overhead fixture. Light flooded the room, and Shelagh took a moment to let her eyes adapt. Was this her x-ray from her time away, she wondered. She peered at the page and saw Patricks name, not hers across the top. Blood pounded in her ears as she felt a slow wave of panic come over her.

"Tuesday, when I said I was seeing a patient at the London? I was having this done. I've been to pulmonology this week." He slid the film from her fingers, noticing how cold they had become.

"My lungs are clear, Shelagh. Between these and the tests done on the TB van, Dr. Parton is convinced there is no sign of any abnormalities in either lung, not even a shadow of an anything. Though he did give me a thorough lecture in the 'Physician, Heal thyself" model." He stopped speaking. Shelagh had gone very quiet."Sweetheart?" He tucked his forefinger under her chin, coaxing her face to meet his.

Patrick knew Shelagh was a beautiful woman. It was a fact that his wife was empirically a truly beautiful woman. This knowledge wasn't simply biased on his own observation; others were aware of it as well. The rest of the world could see her beauty: the glowing eyes and clear skin, her warm smile and perfect form and more all added up to a loveliness unmatched.

He knew he was particularly attuned to her beauty because he loved her. He had known she was beautiful even when so little of her was exposed to him. When she became his Shelagh, he was astounded by her loveliness. She took his breath away when she smiled her answer to his proposal. She stunned him when he had turned to see her approaching him in the church.

He knew, more than anyone, how very lovely she truly was. He saw her beauty in her smiles at their children, as she lay asleep in their bed. The lovely serenity that crossed her face as she made their home, the winsome grace of her form as she walked, or did even the most mundane of tasks. And he alone had the privilege of seeing the beauty of her face when he loved her, sharing the joy of her body.

He knew right then that he had never seen her so glorious as at that moment, when she lifted her eyes to him, shining with love.


	8. Epilogue

For a week, Patrick was a cheerful non-smoker, perhaps even a bit smug. The family was amazed at his determination and positive attitude. He would pontificate largely on the wonders of his sharpened sense of smell and taste, how he felt free from the tyranny of the cigarette.

"Since medical school, Tim. Over thirty years," he reminded his son more than once. "I was a smoker for over thirty years. Kicked it straight off."

Even a supportive son has his limits, though, and Timothy started spending a bit more time outside.

Shelagh was made of sterner stuff, and was happy to hear Patrick's tales of conversion. His cough hadn't stopped completely, but was improving enough to ease her worries.

However, the sense of triumph may have blinded her to what was to come.

The eighth day cigarette-free, Patrick seemed distracted. During clinic he was subjected to a stern lecture from Sister Evangelina on the merits of paying attention to a patient. On his calls, old Mr. Talbot had to remind him twice that it was his leg the good doctor was there to see, and not his ear.

By the time he arrived home for dinner, even later than usual, Patrick was a bit irritable.

The tenth day, Patrick woke late, forgot he was to make calls at the London Hospital, and picked a fight with Timothy about the length of his pants.

Shelagh reminded Timothy that the road ahead would be a bit rocky, and his father deserved their patience.

Even Angela was not immune to his irritation. After a week and a half of no cigarettes, Patrick became less understanding of the infant's night time waking habits.

Through all this, Shelagh was the soul of patience. She had asked a great deal of him, the very least she could do was fulfill her promise to stand by his side.

So, how to help? Obviously, Patrick needed some distractions. She brought him some gum to chew. She encouraged walks. She thought of projects to keep him busy. Patrick would succeed, she was determined.

By the second Saturday, it seemed as if nothing would help. Home early from a slow day at the surgery, Patrick was tired, bored and cranky. And apparently, looking for a fight.

Shelagh knew better than to rise to the bait, but Timothy...Well, Timothy was a growing boy, after all, eager to prove himself a man.

After a lunch featuring sniping and passive-aggressive arguments, the poor woman had had enough. She dressed Angela in her warmest sweater, wrapped her in the favorite pink blanket and announced, "Timothy, it's time for you to take your sister for a very long walk."

Normally, Tim would balk at such a task on a Saturday afternoon, but the idea of spending the day working on his history theme as his father prowled about the flat was enough to make the boy jump at the chance to get out.

"Can I go to Nonnatus? See if anyone's there?" he asked quietly.

"Yes. Here's a bottle just in case. She's changed and fed, so you should be fine for at least an hour." Shelagh glanced back down the hall. "Yes. I'll need at least an hour. Maybe two. Trust me, Tim. I have a plan."

She returned to find Patrick still at the table, drumming his fingers on its surface. "Don't start, Shelagh. He was just as difficult as-"

"Yes, dear," Shelagh interrupted. "I know. You're a wee bit out of sorts today." She smiled brightly at him. "You just need a distraction, that's all."

Patrick's head craned to the ceiling, his eyes rolling in disgust. "Shelagh, I am not fixing another squeaky hinge or helping you transpose another tenor part for the choir. If you think-"

"Shh. I know," Shelagh stepped closer to him and cradled his cheek. She bent down and placed a warm kiss on his unresponsive lips.

"Shelagh," he complained. "I will not be manipulated like this. If you think you can...what are you doing?"

"Nothing, Patrick. Certainly not manipulating you." Her dress fell to the floor.

"Shelagh!"

"I promised I would help, Patrick. So I'm helping." Placing one foot on the chair across from him, she unsnapped the garters to her left stocking and slid it down her leg. "Don't you want my help, dearest?" she asked innocently.

For a long moment Patrick stared at his wife. Then he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, releasing the bad mood with it. His hand reached over and glided up the length of her calf.

"So everytime I want a cigarette you're going to seduce me?"

"Is there a problem with that?" Standing before him, Shelagh's innocent smile became rather saucy.

"I don't know," he answered. He swiftly flicked the garters on the other leg and tossed the stocking on the floor with it's mate. "I smoked for a very long time, Shelagh. I think I'm going to need _a lot _of distractions."

Pulling him to his feet, Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck to bring his face to hers. "Whatever it takes, Patrick. A girl has to do what a girl has to do."


End file.
